A Little Loss of Innocence
by jafall
Summary: You hated him as he turned in his chair to see you standing in the doorway, and you hated him when he smiled. You hated him as he pushed you onto the bed, and you hated yourself when you started crying.


You and Kawara have only been going out for a couple of weeks. The occasional brief touch of hands, the glances in the classroom and his smile, full of warmth, as he listens to you play the piano.

It started when you told him about your dreams of being a musician, and he listened like your father didn't have time to. He told you your playing was beautiful. He beamed, and said you could do whatever you put your mind to. You smiled back, despite yourself, and he moved to sit next to you and asked you to teach him. You kissed him instead. Looking back, it had been extremely uncouth of you, but Kawara hadn't minded. You remembered his lips parting slightly, and him jolting away in surprise. But then he'd smiled at you, and brushed his lips against your cheek softly. You both stayed behind after school, and you taught him to play Frère Jacques.

The doctor has only been acting like this for a few days. It's fine, though. Father told you to treat him with respect, and to revere him. A true genius, you suppose, could never really do anything wrong. You're fine.

'You can call me by my first name, you know.' You recoiled, and fell off the back of the bench while Kawara laughed at you. You mumbled nonsense, whilst you straightened your blazer out, and avoided his gaze. He laced his fingers with yours and leaned towards you, still smiling, and spelled out his name syllabically. You grumbled something about not needing his help, and that you knew Japanese well enough, before you caved in. You looked at the ground for a moment, sighed, and turned to look him in the eye. 'Ryouta.'

He fell off the bench laughing, gasping and clutching his stomach, while he tried to tell you how serious you'd looked and that he couldn't help it. You flushed a deep red, clenched your teeth and moved to leave, making him giggle all the more as he ran to catch up with you. You walked briskly, so he wouldn't be able to see that you were smiling, too.

When Ryouta touched your face, his hands were gentle, and the sweet feeling lingered even when he brought his hands away. When the doctor touched you, he didn't bother to touch your face. It lingered for a different reason.

It didn't hurt too much.

Ryouta had to work at the café after school, and you had student council duties. You surprised yourself when you noticed that you felt lonely without him, and slumped in your chair, tilting your neck so you could look out the open window and feel the small breeze play against your skin. You realised you'd always been lonely, to some extent. Always pushed people away because they weren't up to your standards, or because of the lack of wealth behind their surname. Your father had taught you that you were above others, and that some were born to be scorned and tread upon by the higher society. You wondered what you father would think of Ryouta.

A quiet jingle came from your phone, and you flipped it open to see his caller ID. Maybe you don't care what father thinks, after all. Right then, you only cared about Ryouta, and the fact that you wanted to hear his voice.

Maybe staying at school alone hadn't been a good idea. You probably should have taken the other route out of the building, not the one that passes the infirmary, but it was too late.

Your wrists hurt, gripped tightly behind your back, and your cheek pressed roughly against the pristine white sheets. You groaned out something inaudible, but no one was coming to help you. You don't think you'd have wanted anyone to see you like that, anyway.

At lunch, Ryouta was messing with your hair, putting it in lazy plaits and laughing when you tried to pull them out. But the laughing had stopped abruptly, and you craned your neck to see his face. He was staring at your wrists. You hurriedly tugged your sleeves over the marks but he'd already seen them, and you knew he was about to ask about them. So you ran.

You ended up at the infirmary.

Why had you gone there? You made Ryouta worry, and you suppose you were punishing yourself. Or perhaps you didn't hate the doctor as much as you thought. No. No, you did hate the doctor. You hated him as he turned in his chair to see you standing in the doorway, and you hated him when he smiled. You hated him as he pushed you onto the bed, and you hated yourself when you started crying.

When Ryouta tried to speak to you, you avoided him. You kept your eyes trained on the board during class, and didn't look back at him once.  
You skipped lunch, and hid in the library, pretending to read but you couldn't concentrate.  
You saw him along the hallway outside your classroom, turned on your heel and escaped down a flight of stairs.

You ended up at the infirmary.

You hated that room. White for you had once meant purity, and innocence. The first fall of snow and fresh milk. It had a new meaning now. It reminded you of white curtains, a bright, clinical hanging light, polished white floors and bleached bed sheets that smelled of disinfectant. A white lab coat.

The white handle on a medical scalpel.

You've decided not to care what your father thinks.

You painted the white room red.


End file.
